The Flame of Life

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

The sun dazzled as he rounded the island by Buckingham Palace. He felt free, caught in the vital pull of London, which he always enjoyed. He swore it wasn’t because Cuthbert had gone, but knew that in part it certainly was. Dangerous and smouldering Maricarmen had taken hard-headed Messianic Cuthbert to some mad do-gooding adventure on the slopes of the Pyrenees, and now he hoped for a great peace which would enable him to resume his painting and pull off a few big ideas that were jumping on the trampoline of his mind.

He turned up the Mall towards Piccadilly, going smoothly between traffic. London was hell to get into and out of with a car, but once inside it didn’t seem too bad because he knew every one-way backstreet and was never at a loss for movement. He thought of Daphne Ritmeester, whom he hadn’t seen since their spine-shifting encounter several months ago. In fact he couldn’t smell London without the wick-fever coming on, and hoping for a repetition of that midnight potent flash in the middle of the day — which seemed never likely to happen again, at least not by chance.

He went along Dover Street and through Berkeley Square, finding a spare meter almost opposite the gallery. It was only half past ten and he wondered whether Teddy would be in. He was certainly difficult to get by phone, like all other English gaffers and executives. If you phoned before eleven they weren’t there yet. Patiently, you went back to your painting and forgot to phone again till twelve, by which time they were out at lunch. So it was no use phoning before three. And if you were too absorbed in your work and didn’t ring till four they were already on their way home. Whole days had often passed before he’d pinned someone down. The phone seemed more antiquated than smoke signals, and he found it quicker to make contact simply by driving to London, or writing a letter. They talk about the working man being a skiver, he thought.

The gallery wasn’t open, so he walked to Selfridges to search out a present for Enid in case he spent time in Daphne’s bed. The midweek store was crowded, and he hated being thrust among so many people, wanting only to get back to the quiet of his paddock and studio. The rhubarb noise burned his ears.

A sweet old English lady with the usual sharp holdall jabbed at him as if to get by. He trod on her foot by way of his own back, and smiled an apology. She bent down to rub the pain out of her toes, and slipped two pair of tights — which she had previously knocked off the counter — into her shoplifter’s reticule. She was too low to be seen by television scanners beaming from above, and in any case he’d screened her by his apology. It was well worked out, he thought, getting on his way before he was grabbed as an accomplice.

He bought a tin of cigars from the tobacco section, then an expensive bottle of French scent for Enid. Glad to be in the air, even though it was ninety per cent fumes, he dashed between the cars and towards Teddy’s gallery.

It was open, and he walked through an exhibition of huge grey drawings by some gloomy sado-masochistic German who seemed to have been brought up by a mad aunt in a damp cellar on the banks of the Rhine. He went into the inner office without knocking, to find Teddy in a casual embrace with a young man in overalls who looked like one of the window-cleaners. He hurriedly unclasped, a flush spreading over his strawberry face: ‘Off you go then, Bill. I’ll see you later.’

‘All right, guv’nor,’ said Bill, walking nonchalantly back to the main part of the gallery.

‘I know we have no secrets,’ Teddy complained, ‘but you ought to knock.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Handley said, sitting in the leather armchair. ‘I was here half an hour since, saw the place shut, and thought you’d gone off to Portugal with all my money.’

‘Yours wouldn’t get me far,’ he laughed, noting how smart Handley looked. ‘But you have got some more coming to you. The Tate are asking for a dozen paintings, and they’ll do half of them on postcards. Then the Keel Gallery in Zurich wants to put on a big exhibition of contemporary British painters. You’re to be the big star. A private gallery in Rome, and one in Venice are getting the hot flushes about you. You’re really hitting the jackpot.’

‘That’s just as well,’ Handley said, feeling fashionably dead at the idea of getting more money than was good for his inner life. ‘My children are starting to leave home — which is always expensive.’

Teddy, ever hospitable, poured him his customary brandy. ‘Too much tranquillity can ruin an artist. Maybe a bit of emotional stir-about will do you good.’

He held up his glass before drinking, not caring to mention the stir-about of the last day or two. ‘Any news of Daphne?’

Teddy didn’t like anyone referring to Lady Ritmeester by her first name. ‘Daphne?’

‘Oh piss off! You know who I mean: my glorious proudarsed patroness with the hair like Sugar Loaf Mountain.’

‘Lady Ritmeester? Came in last week and mentioned she was going to the family chateau in France for a while.’

Teddy seemed glad to give out this piece of news, Handley noted, as a little titbit of revenge. ‘I’m thwarted in my evil sexual designs. Like you were when I came in. So let’s get back to money.’

‘Didn’t you receive my letter?’

‘I got nothing.’

‘My secretary sent it a week ago.’

‘I suppose my mad son-in-law found it,’ Handley said, ‘and burned it.’

‘Anyway, I sold “Abraham in Flanders”, “The Prodigal Poacher” and “Jacob and Esau”. I’ve had offers for four others. Then there are royalties on reproductions. Comes to nearly £3,000.’

‘Was there a chit in the envelope?’

‘I believe so.’ He took a cheque book from his drawer and showed the stub for £2,952.

‘Write me another,’ Handley said. ‘And give me a drink. My hand’s trembling.’

‘If you don’t mind,’ Teddy said, ‘I’ll see first whether or not this one’s been cashed.’

Handley flushed. ‘Don’t you trust me?’

He poured a large brandy. ‘Absolutely. With my life — and that’s saying something. But I’ve got to do it this way to satisfy my financial people. It’s only a matter of days. If you’re short of a thousand I can give it you on account.’

Handley sat down. ‘I’m not that short — yet.’

‘Tell me how your work is.’

The lost cheque worried him. ‘The crack-up’s coming. But work’s all right. The community’s bursting at the seams. Four people dropping out. I was thinking of asking Daphne to join. You as well.’

‘Very kind,’ Teddy said sarcastically. ‘But I don’t like the country. Fresh air brings back my asthma. Why don’t you have lunch with me? We’ll split a bottle of good wine at “The Flayed Ox”.’

‘I’m off to Rowney’s for a stock of paints and paper. Anyway, I’ve got to look for the cheque. I’ll go back home and tear the place apart.’

‘Just do some more marvellous work,’ Teddy said.

‘I sometimes think I’ll never even paint a door again.’

‘A good sign. Something’s bubbling in you. You’re a fine artist, Albert.’

Handley stood, sick of being where he was, though he didn’t know where else he wanted to be. ‘I’d often prefer it if there wasn’t so much money coming in,’ he said, anger breaking through his pleasant humour. ‘I’ve worked half my life on begging letters and the dole, and suddenly I get swamped with ten thousand a year. I’d much rather get fifteen hundred so that I can scrape along just one notch above the bread line.’

Greensleaves didn’t like this sort of talk. ‘Your work’s the same, whatever you earn.’

‘Yes, but if I got enough to eat and nothing else I wouldn’t stick to what made me rich, but would do something different. It’d be more interesting.’

‘For God’s sake don’t change your style,’ Teddy exclaimed, and Handley noted with satisfaction that he’d never seen him so agitated. ‘It’s exactly what people want. You’re in a bad way. What’s eating you?’

Handley pushed his face to within half a foot: ‘You’re eating me — with chutney and pickle. You’ve got my liver in your fangs. And, naturally, I don’t like it.’

Teddy felt a strong impulse to kiss him, but resisted because he didn’t relish the savage punch-up that was sure to follow when his gesture of goodwill was misconstrued. ‘I don’t understand you,’ he said, as Handley drew away.

‘I don’t savvy myself. But I’ve always painted exactly as I liked, and the fact that I’ve made money in the last few years hasn’t changed my ideas a bit. I’m not that sort of bloke. If Enid and I had to live in a tent so that I could experiment with other styles, we’d do it. I’m not saying I’m going to, but it might come one of these years.’

Teddy smiled with relief. ‘Every artist has to develop and widen his talent: As long as he keeps on the broad road of it, and doesn’t wander into dead-ends and byways.’

‘You can leave that to me. I certainly shan’t do the sort of black melancholy crap that’s hanging in your gallery this morning. I never was one to frighten myself to death. Anyway, thanks for the invitation to lunch. I must do my shopping and get back to Enid.’

They parted on the usual good terms. Handley drove towards Percy Street, but got glued in traffic for half an hour around Oxford Circus, so that by the time he’d found a meter-bay, and bought his painting materials, it was well into lunch-time. He sat alone with a quick pizza on Charlotte Street, mulling over the fate of the fat cheque that never got to him.